Rising Star, Falling Darkness
by misscam
Summary: AU. Sauron has regained his One Ring and darkness has come. Is still possible for the morning star to shine and bring a new dawn?
1. Prologue

Rising Star, Falling Darkness  
By Camilla Sandman  
  
Disclaimer: I'm pretty sure Tolkien would be rolling over in his grave if he saw what I was writing, but since he took much from writings of my Nordic forefathers, how about we call it even?   
  
Author's Note: Thanks to all beta-reader offers! I am grateful to all who offered, but I need only one... Thanks, oh Great One! ;)   
  
Prologue   
  
*******  
  
One Ring. _One Ring to rule them all. _One Ring was all Sauron needed to regain all his power, to spread his shadow from Mordor to cover all of Middle-earth.   
  
And he got it.  
  
At the lair of Shelob, a giant spider of old, Frodo and Sam fell into a trap, and Gollum took his precious back.   
  
The Ringwraiths overcame him, and the Ring was united with its master.  
  
Darkness came. Night fell.  
  
The very Earth cried out in terror. The sky darkened. Black rain fell. The sun turned red. And all but a few fled before Sauron's wrath.  
  
Aragorn, son of Arathorn was last seen as he faced a sea of orcs, grim and grieved and with death in his eyes.   
  
All seemed lost.  
  
Men were cut down as they stood weeping, robbed of hope and purpose. Smoke rose from Minas Tirith, the White City red with blood.   
  
All seemed lost.  
  
The leaves of Lothlórien turned black and fell from the trees. The elves wept, turning their faces towards the sea. Even the sea itself seemed darker, reflecting only the black sky.  
  
All seemed lost.  
  
But even in the darkness there are stars – tiny glimmers of light. All was not lost.  
  
Frodo and Sam lived.   
  
Morning could still dawn for Middle-earth.  
  
*******  
  
Orcs.  
  
Orcs in her beloved Lothlórien, forever tainting its beauty. She would weep if she was not crying already, cradling the body of Celeborn. His eyes stared up at her, empty and robbed of hope.   
  
The Eye was in her mind, gloating, triumphant, but she felt too numb to care.  
  
And when the a orc stumbled into the clearing, looking viciously at her, she did nothing but stare back. Death was welcome. Death was better than what other fate Sauron had in mind for the beings of Middle-earth.  
  
She stood up, closing her eyes and waiting for the cold steel to take away her pain.  
  
"Galadriel!" came the musical voice of Legolas, and she opened her eyes to see the orc dead by her feet, and the Elf and the Dwarf Gimli, bloodied and dirty, but alive.   
  
Legolas's face fell as his eyes came to rest on the body of Celeborn, and for a moment the elf almost reached out to touch her. Looking down at his bloody hand, he seemed to notice it for the first time.  
  
"Aragorn," he whispered softly. His face was so saddened she did not need to read his mind to know what had happened.  
  
"We must go," Gimli insisted. "The Nazgûl are coming."   
  
"Let them come," she answered flatly, throwing back her head. Defiant, she stared into the Eye, fighting hard not to recoil at viciousness in it. It wanted her, wanted her to scream before It and possibly even become a wraith under It, weak and tormented.  
  
_Never! _she cried out silently.  
  
And as her mind focused on Mordor, she came across a small awareness, faint, but undoubtedly alive. She nearly staggered in surprise.  
  
Frodo.   
  
Frodo was somewhere in Mordor, still himself, still alive.   
  
_She stood on by the fires of Mount Doom, the looming shape of the Dark Lord before her, lifting his weapon to strike at her. But Frodo was there, small and forgotten, until he lifted his sword and cried out._  
  
A tremor went through her body as the vision vanished and she felt a hand take hers. Looking down, she saw Gimli's tear-stricken face. His eyes seemed cold and hollow, but a glimmer of defiance shone as well.   
  
"I will not let you fall," he said, his voice as grim as death.  
  
"Nor will I," Legolas echoed, and even as he said it, he spun around and released an arrow at the coming orc. Within a heartbeat, two more laid dead, their black blood spilling onto the green grass, forever staining it.   
  
Gimli clutched his axe closer, but he did not let go of Galadriel's hand, and she could feel her mind clear. The grief was still there, but felt dimmer.  
  
Was it possible that there was hope still?  
  
Bending down, she picked up the sword by Celeborn's side. It shone in her hand, the light of Lothlórien still within it. The light of Celeborn, beloved beyond words. Kissing his brow and closing his eyes, she let one single tear fall onto his face.  
  
"Namárië," she whispered.   
  
Death would come soon enough and reunite them  
  



	2. Chapter One

Chapter One  
  
Screams.  
  
Inhuman screams and human screams mixed together, echoing through the streets of Minas Tirith. A faint clank of a weapon hitting the street could be heard, and here and there cruel laughter. But it was the screams that filled the air and carried with the wind.  
  
Carried all the way to Mordor, where Sauron would relish them, certain it was all his now. There would be no end to the screams, no end to the blood, no end to his Shadow.  
  
Minas Tirith was falling. Soon it would all fall, Elven and Human cites alike.  
  
And Middle-earth screamed.  
  
Faramir, son of Denethor, possibly the last Steward of Gondor, raced through the streets of Minas Tirith, dodging arrows. A few swords came in his path, but he knocked them aside, desperation giving him unknown strength.   
  
Éowyn.   
  
He had left the Houses of Healing to hear news from the front, and standing at top of the city he had seen the Shadow rise.   
  
For a brief moment that seemed to last forever he hadn't been able to move, just stare at their doom. The Doom of Middle-earth. His heart had been pierced with darkness and all had felt lost.   
  
Then screams had begun to rise from the city and in a sudden flash of light he had envisioned Éowyn of Rohan, orcs bearing down on her. He could not let her die, not without dying himself. He wanted to see her just once more, feel her light in the terrible darkness.   
  
And so he ran, barely aware tears were streaming down on his face.  
  
The White City was no longer white; the sky was no longer blue and the air was foul. Could it even be called Middle-earth anymore?  
  
Men fled through the streets, their faces filled only with terror. Bodies lay scattered in some streets, women and men alike.   
  
The Houses of Healing were burning he realised as he turned a corner, great flames eating away at the buildings like a hungry beast. His body nearly froze, a distant memory of flames haunting it, but his mind was too focused to allow for halts.  
  
Black smoke clouded his vision and his eyes burned. He could make out dark shapes, nearly blending in with the smoke. Almost as if they were a part of it.  
  
Cold steel made contact with his arm, and he winced in pain. With a quick thrust his opponent fell to the street, an orc with a hideous smile on its lips.   
  
But he hardly looked to see if the orc was dead, for now he saw her. Her sword flashed bright, and she nearly shone like a star in her white dress. But her face was hard and cold, and blood stained the dress.  
  
Beautiful, deadly Éowyn. Even as he saw her, his heart cried out in pain and joy at the same time. She was alive, but her face spoke of death.   
  
The same face he had seen soften with a smile not too long ago, the same face had had wanted to caress and from which wipe away all sorrow. The face he had come to love.  
  
She had nothing to live for and everything to die for, now.  
  
By her side, Merry and Pippin, the halflings, stood as fierce as any men would, their little swords working furiously. The men of Minas Tirith fled in fear, but the little people stood their ground.   
  
A strange defiance came over him. Death was around them, but Sauron would not have this victory. They would go to their deaths with dignity and pride, not fear.  
  
"Gondor!" he cried out, and his cry echoed through the streets, growing in strength until it carried over the screams and with the wind.   
  
And the men heard. One cry of courage and defiance in the heart of darkness.   
  
One cry among the screams.  
  
*******  
  
All the way to Lothlórien the cry of Faramir carried, where the waves of orcs searched furiously, the Nazgûl hissing in anger.   
  
The Lord of Lórien lay slain but the Lady had vanished. Sauron would not be pleased. The Nazgûl knew better than to displease him, and so they whipped the orcs on.  
  
Trees burned and houses came crashing to the ground. Statues were broken, fountains knocked over.   
  
Galadriel saw it all in her mind as she sat on the cold cave floor, silent and waiting. Gimli had found the cave just outside the forest, claiming the orcs would not see it. And so they sat in the darkness, hearing the faint sounds of trees falling.  
  
She could make out the shape of Legolas, head in his hands. She knew he was crying, but his tears were silent. Neither he nor Gimli had spoken about the rise of the Shadow, but she could see it clearly in their minds.  
  
Legolas had come to Aragorn's side, but too late. The orcs and the Nazgûl had taken his friend, cutting into his flesh and carrying Isildur's Heir to Mordor, to face Sauron's wrath for what Isildur had cost him. The man's blood was still on the elf's hand, and his mind it would forever be.  
  
She had whispered in his mind that it was not, but the young elf had simply looked at her with his deep eyes. He had nearly fallen himself, but Gimli had come and together they had killed a Nazgûl.   
  
She did not have the strength to look further into their minds, adding to her own grief. It came at her every time she breathed, like knives stabbing at her heart.   
  
The ring in her hand felt warm. She didn't dare put it on, for Sauron was aware of it now.   
  
Could it be his downfall? Could her vision come to be? He would not expect her to walk into his dark land of her own free will. He would try to cut her off from the Havens, her and all the elves.  
  
_Frodo Ringbearer, lose not hope. I will come _she whispered, reaching for his mind. No answer came to her, but somehow she knew he had heard.   
  
"Where shall we go?" Gimli muttered.   
  
"To Mordor," she replied, clutching the ring. "To Mordor."  
  



	3. Chapter Two

Rising Star, Falling Darkness  
By Camilla Sandman   
  
Chapter Two  
  
Smoke.  
  
Smoke rose from all of Mordor, hiding most of it from view. The darkness there seemed alive, pulsing viciously and greeting Gandalf with angry whispers. He paid no heed, urging the eagle onwards.  
  
Arrows were shot at him, but they fell back to the ground. He was still Gandalf the White, and no mere arrow would slay his form.  
  
But the darkness was greater now, and even his white garments seemed dark.  
  
Beyond all hope, he was looking for Aragorn, to bring some light to the men. There had to be hope. There had to be something but darkness. There had to be. The Valar could not let this come to be… Could they?  
  
Some of the Nazgûl were probably near, and he scoured the darkness intently. Below him, orcs in the thousands were charging onwards. They would soon sweep over Middle-earth like a black tide, washing away all that held beauty.  
  
"Oh Frodo," he whispered. They should not have given the young hobbit that burden. Foolish, foolish plan. Yet it had seemed so.. Destined. What had gone wrong?   
  
Something came flying at him, and it took him a moment to realise who it was. Riding a winged steed like those of the Ringwraiths was Saruman, speeding away from Mordor.   
  
"Saruman!" Gandalf cried out, torn between anger and despair. The Ents must have fallen. The Shadow had come to Fangorn. One more battle lost. One more wonder of the ancient world lost.  
  
Soon it would all fall to Sauron and be gone and he would have failed.   
  
He lifted his staff at the very same moment Saruman lifted his eyes and their gazes met. There was something in Saruman's gaze – desperation, anger, grief? Or was it... Regret?  
  
Fire shot out of Gandalf's staff, striking the steed. The fire lit up in the darkness for a brief moment, and Gandalf saw suddenly that the steed carried not only Saruman. There were two men on it, one huddled in front with an arm hanging limp. A dark shape, but oh, so very familiar.  
  
Aragorn. For a moment, Gandalf only stared, everything suddenly so clear. His old friend and leader of the council had not been beyond redemption. There was hope. Saruman had saved Aragorn! In the darkest moment there was a ray of light, unexpected and unlooked for.  
  
The fire struck its target and the steed fell, screeching. Gandalf urged the eagle onwards within seconds, and it dove to make the catch. The air rushed against him, but he clung on, willing the eagle to go faster, faster, faster.  
  
He had to make it.  
  
Down they went.  
  
******  
  
Legolas was not sure what time of the day it was when they finally made their way out of the cave. The darkness offered no answers, and nature was silent, fearful and cold. It could be night, it could be day, it did not matter.  
  
The orcs had moved further north, leaving a telltale sign behind. There was only destruction and death in their wake.   
  
Smoke rose from Lothlórien still, and it was enough to bring tears to his eyes yet again. So many elves, so many trees, so much beauty lost forever.   
  
But not the Lady of Lothlórien. Even grieved and silent, she was beautiful. A morning star heading into the darkness of Mordor.   
  
Mordor. They were heading for it, not fleeing from it as would have been wise. The mere name was terror and evil. Mordor. All that left it did so with evil in their hearts. Yet she did not seem afraid, nor did Gimli.  
  
The dwarf was walking so close to her she nearly tripped over him a few times. His eyes watched the forest, as if he was daring the orcs to come. Perhaps he was. Perhaps he too felt like Legolas did, that fighting made the pain seem less. There was no time to think then, only react.   
  
But here in the dark, silent landscape, there as no escape from memories, no hiding from pain.  
  
Aragorn.   
  
The elf lifted his glance to Galadriel, seeing in her face only understanding. It would almost be better if there was blame, not more sadness for her feeling with him.   
  
He shivered at the intensity of her glance, so keen and caring and old even now.   
  
_I will not let you fall, fair light of Lothórien, _he swore to himself.  
  
_ And you, brave spirit of Mirkwood? Will you fall? _she replied in his mind, and he looked startled up at her. Her voice sounded so soft, like the trickle of gentle rain on leaves. It made him think of Mirkwood in the autumn, and for a brief second the pain was gone.  
  
It came back with such force he nearly stumbled. Mirkwood would be run over by orcs. Never again would he stand in the autumn rain or walk through dewed moss in the great forest.  
  
"What else is there but death now?" he asked, and Gimli looked up, frowning.  
  
"Dying for the right reasons, Legolas Greenleaf," she replied, her eyes never leaving his. "Aragorn would expect nothing less of you both."  
  
"The only dead here will be orcs," Gimli broke in, "Each fallen elf shall have ten orcs felled by me, lady Galadriel. You will be our light."  
  
"And you, Gimli son of Glóin, will be our courage," she said softly. "Without hope, we must rely on courage. Courage and.." It seemed as if she would say more, but her voice faltered.   
  
They spoke no more, picking up speed through the silent landscape. Onwards they went, the shadows engulfing them, but a faint light shone about them still.  
  



	4. Chapter Three

Rising Star, Falling Darkness  
By Camilla Sandman   
  
Chapter Three  
  
Blood.  
  
Blood all over his clothes and hands. Black blood and red blood mixed until it was hard to say if it was more red or black. He could taste ashes in his mouth, but for the life of him, Faramir couldn't remember having swallowed any.  
  
It did not matter though. What mattered was keeping his sword swinging, fighting the endless stream of orcs. His arms were heavy, and how his legs still held him upright was a mystery. Small cuts burned on his skin and every intake of breath seemed more painful than the last.  
  
But he still stood and he would stand until all his strength had waned, and then his soul would flee his body. There were worse ways to die, he thought dimly, his sword cutting into flesh. He just couldn't think of any.   
  
The earth shook. Glancing up, he could see a building up the street come tumbling down, crushing several men as well as a few orcs. Dust was kicked into the air, mingling with smoke and ashes. It was hard to see anything clearly beyond a few feet.   
  
His glance went higher up, as by a will of its own, higher and higher until he saw the sky. It was as black as an abyss, and for a moment he had the strangest feeling of falling.  
  
And then he saw the black shape of an eagle flying above. An eagle carrying… Two men? He couldn't tell, until the eagle dove downwards and he got a glimpse of white.  
  
"Gandalf!" he cried out in astonishment and his heart lifted. Gandalf! Was there hope? By his side, Éowyn and the halflings were staring at the sky also, and their faces shone for the briefest moment. Hope.   
  
Hope in the dark. White in the dark.  
  
The eagle let out a piercing shriek, and it seemed to shape itself into words in Faramir's mind.  
  
_ Follow. Follow._  
  
And as quickly the eagle had come, it turned westwards, speeding away faster than any wind.  
  
Follow?  
  
Two orcs came at him, and he barely managed to get his sword up to block even one. The other screamed in triumph, lifting its weapon – and getting the short sword of Peregrin Took in its back.   
  
Pippin looked tired, but there was a gleam in his eyes, one that promised death to his enemies. Such a change from their merry smiles and warm spirits. Faramir had talked much with Merry during their stay at the Houses of Healing, but now he wondered if he would ever understand halflings at all.   
  
He shook that thought away, staring westwards. Follow?   
  
Maybe it was not hope, but it resembled hope and perhaps that was enough.  
  
He took Éowyn's hand and she stared up at him in surprise. Another dead orc lay by her feet. He was not sure how many she had felled this dark day, but the number was high. Still, there seemed to be no end to the orcs. Waves upon waves came and would keep on coming, until they would drown.   
  
"We must follow," he said simply. "Now."  
  
She hesitated, death still in her pale face, but the tiniest glimmer of something resembling hope shone in her eyes. She nodded, briefly.   
  
Forward they danced, swords flashing through the air. The smoke was dark and thick, shielding most from view. It was hard to see anything until you stumbled upon it. Orcs ran by, looking for something to kill.  
  
There was little left.   
  
Houses fell down, banners and bodies burned as flames ate what they could find. Stumbling forward, Pippin nearly tripped over the body of a young boy, eyes staring up at the dark sky with a silent plea.  
  
Bergil. It had to be him, even with the dark blood of an orc covering his young face. The eyes were the same, and yet not. Older, but still the eyes of a child. A child that had seen horrors that would haunt even a grown man. Horrors that killed.  
  
Bergil, son of Beregond. He would not see his 11th year, or have the chance to marvel again at being taller than Pippin, despite being younger. If Bergil had fallen, was his father dead too?  
  
Pippin had no chance to stop and look, Faramir was already urging them on, but the hobbit could feel the eyes follow him as they ran forward. Dead eyes, accusing eyes. Who would kill a child?  
  
The hobbit wanted to simply sit down and cry, but he just charged forwards, keeping up with the three others. Grief was for later. If they managed to stay alive long enough to grieve. And then perhaps the grief itself would kill them.   
  
Onward they ran, orcs offering little resistance in the chaos that reigned. City walls had crashed down, leaving only rubble to climb over. A few men stood valiantly by the gaping holes, shooting arrows into the coming waves of orcs.  
  
Faramir hesitated then, the desire to fight for his city till he fell surging through his blood. A fitting end to the Stewards of Gondor. Maybe his father would have been proud of such a death. Maybe…  
  
No. There would be death soon enough. One more minute living was one more minute living, was it not? One more minute by her side, Éowyn of Rohan, whom he had come to love.  
  
Éowyn halted, seeing the devastated look on Pippin's face. Her own seemed to soften, and she lowered her sword and put a hand on the halfling's head. Just for a second she let it rest there, eyes shining with affection.   
  
The fighting didn't stop, the dying didn't stop, but for a moment something besides despair and death was at Minas Tirith.   
  
For a moment.  
  



	5. Chapter Four

Rising Star, Falling Darkness  
By Camilla Sandman   
  
Chapter Four  
  
Pain.   
  
Pain, always pain. There had been cold pain, hot pain and a throbbing pain that had seemed to pulse throughout his body. There had been so much pain it seemed blurred, confused. His body did not wish to remember too clearly.  
  
Even now, there was pain, but it seemed more an echo of all the pain earlier, than a pain of its own.  
  
He pondered this for a while, his mind heavy and slow. He had a terrible feeling there was something he should remember – the cause of the pain – but he simply could not. Or maybe he just did not want to remember.  
  
He had been falling... Had he not? Or was that just a strange dream, the feeling of fire and cold wind in his face?   
  
He was now surrounded by softness and warmth, but that too seemed dim. Was it all a dream? When had the dream begun and when would it end?  
  
Pain, always pain.  
  
Someone whispered a name by his ear, and he suddenly realised it was his own. It meant little to him, but he knew it was his. Somewhere in his mind, he could feel his memories, but he could not reach them. Pain waited lay waiting with them.  
  
"What did they do to him?" he heard the sweetest voice ask. He knew the voice was important; it was starlight and love and the sound of leaves falling in the forests. It was Her and he should remember.  
  
He tried to reach for the memories again, but his body cried out in protest.  
  
"I do not know," answered a tired, old voice. "He was taken to Mordor, possibly even tortured by Sauron himself. I do not know if it can ever be healed. Without the rings… I can do little."  
  
"It must be healed! He must live!" There was sadness in her voice now, and her sadness was his pain.  
  
"Arwen…" he whispered, but the name brought more pain and he fell into darkness again.  
  
******  
  
Faint screams came from distant lands. Legolas lifted his head, listening intently. There was a plea in these screams, a plea for the pain to end. Not only the humans screamed, the very mountains seemed to be pleading also.  
  
The dark mountains of Mordor pleading? It seemed too strange a notion to be true, yet it was still in the wind. Mordor had been a source of evil for so long that perhaps only the mountains remembered a time before it had been so.  
  
Galadriel suddenly tensed, staring up at the sky.  
  
"Orcs," she muttered. Looking down at her hand, Legolas saw the glimmer of something shiny in her hand. She seemed to struggle for a moment, sweat beading on her forehead.  
  
"Galadriel?" he asked softly.  
  
"I feel him," she whispered. "The ring – He uses it to call to me. He…He is calling for the Three to join him."  
  
She stared down at her hand and for a moment she seemed to falter, the light around her fading and becoming dark.  
  
"He wants me," she said in a terrible voice.   
  
Gimli reacted first, planting his axe firmly in the ground right next to her.  
  
"He shall not have you," the dwarf announced. His voice was low, but it was as sharp as the edge of a sword and seemed to cut through the air.   
  
"Orcs!" Legolas cried out at the very same moment, whipping around to see the approaching horde. He couldn't tell how many there were. Half of them seemed to move in shadow. But there were many.  
  
Galadriel turned slowly, and now Legolas saw her eyes were dark and terrible. The light around her seemed to return, but it was sharper now. More focused, more deadly.  
  
She lifted her sword, and it shone like silver in her hand. Gimli's axe gleamed darkly beside her.  
  
The first orc hissed loudly as Legolas's arrow pierced its skin. The elf had loosed another one even before the body hit the ground. The arrows flew through the air, felling orcs as silently as snowfall.   
  
Gimli charged, lifting his mighty axe and killing the nearest orc with a sound blow.   
  
"One," he said fiercely.  
  
Another arrow flew from Legolas's bow, as an orc came charging at him. In the corner of his eye, he saw Galadriel's sword come crushing down. One stroke felled two orcs, but she did not even pause. Her sword swung around again, sharp and deadly.  
  
One orc screamed in terror and turned to flee, but Legolas had an arrow away before the creature had taken four steps. They could not be discovered.   
  
Firing one last arrow, he reached for his knives as the orcs were upon him. A fire seemed to rise within him. Anger won over the despair.  
  
Evil had taken much, but not her, not Galadriel. Not Gimli. Orcs! Mockery of elves, mockery of life itself. Legolas moved swiftly, stabbing so fast his knives were mere glimmers in the night. The orcs saw them not until they were withdrawn again, leaving only deadly wounds.  
  
And then, it was over as quickly as it had begun. The ground was littered with orc bodies, some still bleeding.  
  
"Ten," said Gimli. He pulled his axe free of the last orc and looked up at Galadriel. "That is for one elf, lady Galadriel."  
  
She merely bowed her head for a moment, suddenly looking very tired. Lowering her sword, she glanced up at the sky.   
  
"More orcs will come. We must move quickly."  
  
With that, she sprang forward, no trace of weariness anymore in her steps. She seemed small against the towering mountains, like a lonely star in the blackness of space.  
  
And somewhere, beyond the mountains, Frodo felt her come and held a weeping Sam quietly in the dark.   
  
"Fear not, Sam. She is coming. She is coming."  
  
  
  



	6. Chapter Five

Rising Star, Falling Darkness  
By Camilla Sandman   
  
Chapter Five  
  
Darkness.   
  
Darkness reigned, filling Frodo with a silent dread. It was no normal darkness, it seemed more terrible somehow. It was laughing at him, mocking him.  
  
Tears still ran down his face, unhindered. He had failed. The Quest had failed. Middle-earth was lost to darkness. It was all over. Bilbo, Merry, Pippin, Strider, Gimli, Legolas, Sam… They would all fall, as Gandalf had fallen.  
  
Fall into the dark abyss of death and despair.  
  
_Frodo…_  
  
Her voice came to him again, pleading and strong. It spoke of hope still, and he wanted to believe it more than anything. Believe that he and Sam would walk on the grassy hills of the Shire again, laughing at the sun. Believe that he would hear Bilbo's gentle voice again, speaking of dragons and elves.  
  
He wanted to believe, but he was not sure he could.   
  
His body still hurt, as if some of the venom still lingered. Sam had done what he could, but stuck in the dark carves there was little to be done. The spider could very well return, and if not, the orcs would come eventually. They would be found; there was no escape.  
  
And worst of all, his mind was crying out for the Ring. It had become precious to him, and now it was gone. He needed it, he longed for it. He was no longer sure if he was entirely himself anymore – he felt incomplete. As if the Ring had become a part of him.   
  
What was the Ringbearer without a ring?  
  
A failed Ringbearer.  
  
Abashed, he hid his face against Sam's shoulder. The other hobbit had fallen into a light sleep, twitching every now and then.   
  
_ We are coming, Frodo. Have hope._  
  
Hope.   
  
And Frodo waited in the dark, crying his silent tears, but he was not sure what he cried for most, the fate of Middle-earth, or the loss of the Ring.  
  
******  
  
Hope. Such a small word, but such a great emotion. It could bring victory against all odds, vanquish despair and grief. Hope. Great deeds were done in its name, Men and Elves alike embraced it. It did not have the power to defy death, but it could postpone it. It could be found in the most unlikely places, unlooked for.  
  
Hope. Without it, there was nothing.  
  
Gandalf stared into the flames, which were eating away at the wood in the fireplace and cackling in a comforting sort of way. He knew he should get up. There was much to be done, but his body felt so very, very tired.   
  
And somewhere, in the back of his mind, the Dark Lord was muttering in his foul speech. Calling, tempting, threatening, gloating.  
  
Sauron did not understand hope. He did not even consider it, for all he knew was the power of fear. But even the greatest fear could be conquered with hope.   
  
Hope could save Aragorn, who was fighting demons in his head, demons darker than any night. Arwen was sitting by his side, waiting and hoping.  
  
Elrond was off, gathering the elves of Rivendell. Soon, the orcs would come.  
  
Gandalf felt a sharp stab to his heart at the thought. Beautiful Rivendell, the last Homely House, would fall and burn. And he could do little, for he dared not use the ring. Sauron was too strong now.  
  
No. He would not think of such things, for there laid despair, and they needed hope. Aragorn had been lost, but he had been brought back to them. Time would show if he could come back into the light – if there ever would be more light to walk in.  
  
Sighing, Gandalf leaned back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling.   
  
Saruman was dead. There had been time to catch only one, and it had been Aragorn's arm Gandalf had taken hold of. Saurman had fallen, his body breaking on impact with the unforgiving ground. But his eyes had spoken a silent plea in those last moments.  
  
_Forgive me._   
  
Saruman had sought redemption at the most unlikely moment. Was it a sign of hope?  
  
"Gandalf?" Elrond stood in the doorway now, having entered soundlessly. He looked old and tired, and his eyes seemed to have lost their gleam. There was no starlight there anymore.   
  
Gandalf did not answer, merely fixed his keen eyes on the elf.  
  
"Many elves are fleeing for the Havens. Will you, Gandalf?"  
  
"No."  
  
Elrond nodded, as if expecting it.   
  
"Lothlórien has burned. Celeborn has fallen, but they say Galadriel lives still," the Elf said after a while. "I expected her to make for Rivendell, but she has not come."  
  
"She will not come." Gandalf sighed. "The eagles have seen her with Legolas and Gimli. They are heading for Mordor."  
  
"Mordor!" Elrond exclaimed. "That is madness!"  
  
"Perhaps. Or perhaps she has seen something we have not."   
  
Gandalf reached for his staff, clutching it hard in his hand. It was a small thing, but it felt comforting to grasp it. The wood felt warm in his hand.  
  
Had Galadriel found hope? She could see further than any in Middle-earth. If there was light still, she would find it. It was not much, a single star in the darkness – but it might be enough.  
  
He got up, every bone in his body protesting. It did not matter. One way or another, an end would come soon enough. For now, he had things to do. Middle-earth would not surrender to the shadow of Sauron without a fight. Gandalf would see to it. He would not flee. Fighting Sauron in Middle-earth as his task, and he would accomplish it or die.  
  
He just wished his body did not feel so tired, his mind so heavy and his heart so cold.  
  
Hope. He had to believe.   
  
"Bring us light, Galadriel," he whispered.  
  



	7. Chapter Six

Rising Star, Falling Darkness  
By Camilla Sandman   
  
Chapter Six  
  
Tall.  
  
Tall stood Mount Doom as it hissed and flickered, spitting out lava high into the air. The glow from the lava was the only light, a reddish light that was reminiscent of blood. It bathed them all as they struggled forward in the harsh landscape.   
  
The wind had grown in magnitude, whipping against their skin and making each step a struggle. Ash fell, almost like snow, covering the ground in a fine layer. The air smelled of fire and decay.   
  
They had walked and climbed and run, covering a great distance with their weary feet. Galadriel could hardly feel anything beside the throbbing pain of her legs and the numb pain of her heart. But they had to move, had to find Frodo, had to…  
  
Gimli and Legolas were looking to her for hope and guidance, but to whom could she look?   
  
The sword shone brighter in her hand, and an image of Celeborn flashed before her. Beloved Celeborn, beautiful and wise and with a heart filled with moonlight and song. How she longed to see his face just once more, to hear his voice lifted in songs of faded wonders.   
  
"I do not like this," Gimli said, interrupting her trail of thoughts. "I feel as if someone is aware of us, yet I have seen no orcs draw near."  
  
"Nor have I," Legolas replied, his whole body tensed. He reminded her of an arrow, drawn and ready to spring.  
  
"Mordor is home to creatures other than orcs," Galadriel said in a low voice. "Sauron attracts many evils."  
  
She looked down at the ring, clutched tightly in her left hand. Had it already turned to evil? Had Mithrandir and Elrond felt the same call, the urging of the Eye to give in? It would end the pain, it promised.  
  
The pain would never end as long as Celeborn was not with her. She closed her eyes, just for a second.   
  
There was a soft hiss of air near her, and she whipped around, sword raised. Just for an instant, then she lowered it, her arms suddenly feeling limp.  
  
"Celeborn?" she whispered, her voice shaking. It was him, yet not him, for it seemed darker, more terrible. His skin had turned to a near orcish colour, and his eyes held no light.  
  
"Galadriel… Join me…"  
  
She shook her head frantically, feeling her heart pound so loudly it hurt. Not this. Anything but this.  
  
The being advanced on her, and she tried to lift her arms, but they had no strength. The light in the sword dulled and it seemed to turn red. Blood? It was blood, red blood as that of an Elf or Human. It dripped from the blade now, gathering in a pool beneath her feet.   
  
She began to sink into it; it seemed to have hands tearing at her dress, leaving red traces. It stuck to her skin, moving slightly as if it were alive. Living blood.   
  
Icy fingers touched her hand, and dead eyes stared into hers. Celeborn – no, not Celeborn, it could not be Celeborn, it could *not* – was smiling at her, a hollow, empty smile. No, not a smile, a grimace. A mask.   
  
Her head felt dizzy, and almost as if it was filled with hot liquid. She felt like she was floating in lava for a second, her skin burning. Flames licked at her feet.   
  
The ground opened beneath them and she fell and fell, desperately grasping for something to cling to. But slippery rocks and wet dirt were no help and she could not get a good grip.  
  
The ground closed soundlessly above her, shutting off the reddish light, and there was only the dark, cold Earth.  
  
"We are together now," Celeborn whispered.  
  
She tried to scream, but no sound would come out. She clawed at the dirt, but still she kept sinking. And she was cold, so very cold. Everything was cold, and she began to feel limp.   
  
With her last strength, she flung out an arm, and was rewarded with a soft "Omph". It sounded – not Elvish, but rather Dwarfish… She blinked. The feeling of cold Earth vanished in a puff and the illusion unravelled.   
  
The worried faces of Legolas and Gimli were looking down at her, Gimli clutching his nose.   
  
"Galadriel?" Legolas asked softly. She realised she had fallen to the ground, but there was no blood. No Celeborn. No hole in the ground that had swallowed her.   
  
But in her hand the ring felt hot, almost so hot it hurt to hold.  
  
She took the offered hand, and got up on her feet. The sword lay a few feet away, she must have dropped it. It still shone, and the only blood on it was the dark remains from the orcs it had felled.   
  
Not real. Celeborn was dead, and Saruon did not own her. Not yet.   
  
Not yet. She looked at Gimli, and lifted her hand gently to touch his bruise on the nose.   
  
"I have suffered far worse, lady Galadriel," he muttered, his clear eyes filled with nothing but concern.  
  
"Before this is over pain may have a new meaning to us all, Gimli, son of Glóin."  
  
Her glance lifted to Legolas, who had picked up her sword. He looked almost silver in the light from it. His hand was trembling slightly as he handed her the sword.  
  
And the Eye laughed in her mind, whispering in his foul language. She did not need to understand the words to know what he was saying.  
  
_You will be mine soon. Soon._   
  
But not yet.  
  



	8. Chapter Seven

Rising Star, Falling Darkness  
By Camilla Sandman   
  
Chapter Seven  
  
Silence.  
  
Silence reigned as they stumbled through the small forest, the halflings nearly falling every other step. But their faces shone with determination, and they did not complain.  
  
Faramir was too tired to marvel at the halflings's willpower. Every step was like a whip to his feet. Rocks cut into the soles of his feet, and his boots felt like no protection at all.   
  
It took all the strength he had just not to look back. Look back and see his city burning, his people dying.   
  
Approaching horses made all four freeze. It sounded like several horses, although precisely how many Faramir couldn't tell. And they were coming in their direction.  
  
He lifted his sword even though his arms protested greatly. A battle would be over quickly enough, for none of them had much strength left.   
  
Éowyn let out a cry as the horses came into view, and she took in the familiar banners. Rohan. Her face fell slightly as she seemed to realise her brother was not there.   
  
The nearest rider jumped off in one fluid motion, bowing before Éowyn.  
  
"Lady Éowyn. We feared you were lost in Minas Tirith."  
  
"What of my brother?" she asked breathlessly.   
  
There was a short silence, only broken by a few horses stomping impatiently. Éowyn's face crumbled for a few seconds, shining with desperation and pain. Then she regained her composure, standing erect and strong as a ruler of Rohan should.  
  
"We fear he is fallen, lady. Rohan is without a King."   
  
"But with a Queen," she said tight-lipped. "I will avenge my brother's death if he has indeed fallen. We will bring death to our enemies as they have brought death to us."  
  
Her face was white and cold, but in her eyes, tears glittered.  
  
******  
  
He was not sure quite what awoke him – a cold wind perhaps, or simply a feeling that something was coming.  
  
He bolted upright so fast Sam rolled away from him, the other hobbit blinking confused.   
  
"Master Frodo?"  
  
"I… I feel something, Sam."  
  
Sam scrambled onto his feet, staring intently into the dark. Frodo fumbled behind him, searching for his sword. He finally found it, not an easy task in the complete darkness that surrounded them.  
  
His legs were shaking as he held Sting out in the dark. It did not glow blue, so it was not orcs. But something was drawing near. Strangely enough, it did not feel evil.   
  
_Frodo…_  
  
He nearly lost the sword at the sudden nearness of her voice. She was near, very near. He was overcome with relief and guilt, for how could he face her when he had failed? They had trusted him. They had all trusted him.  
  
"Frodo!" came the soft voice of Legolas the Elf, drawing nearer. Frodo felt an instant stab at the sound of the voice. How long ago was it that he had heard it first, in the warmth of Elrond's house? He shuddered.  
  
How had they reached him and Sam so fast? It felt like they had trotted through the wilderness forever; him and Sam and Gollum.   
  
"It is Lady Galadriel!" Sam said in awe, as the darkness around them faded and clear starlight filled their senses.   
  
******  
  
The riders had led them to a modest camp, where survivors had gathered. Many seemed to look up in awe at them, and Faramir was not quite sure why.  
  
He could not see what they saw; the distant look of honour and will from a time when men had been greater and nobler. But he did see Lady Éowyn, exhausted yet refusing to take any rest until she was assured the halfings were fine. She spoke to every man, and behind her courageous spirit was a gentle heart.  
  
Finally, she ordered him to rest, and he found a quiet spot near the end of the camp. The halflings were sound asleep nearby, almost cuddling as they slept, and he found himself wishing…   
  
Boromir. He missed Boromir, the brother he had always admired, but never quite understood.  
  
"Faramir?" Her soft voice drew him from his thoughts, and he looked up at her.  
  
Even dirty and bloody and tired, she was more beautiful than any woman he had met before. Her face was a mirror of his grief – she too, had lost a father and possibly a brother too.   
  
She sank down next to him, searching for his hand and taking it with a strength that surprised him.  
  
"We will rest here a while," she told him. "Then we will go to our doom."  
  
"Maybe it will be doom for Sauron and not us," he countered, not really believing it. She laughed bitterly.  
  
"My doom has already fallen," she said sadly. "For all that I have loved have been taken from me. There is nothing left."  
  
"Nothing?"  
  
He stared at her face, saw the lines softening. For a second, her face was no longer hard and drawn.  
  
"Almost." Her voice was but a whisper, but the look in her eyes was truth enough.   
  
"If the morning comes, know that my heart belongs to the White Lady of Rohan, and to her I give my life," he said, meaning every word.  
  
"The morning may never come again," she replied. "Kiss me, Faramir of Gondor, for I am cold and I desire warmth."  
  
He lifted a hand to her face, caressing her cheek gently. Her skin was cold to touch, cold but soft. Her eyes shone in the weak light, a silent plea to take the pain away, for just a little while.  
  
So he kissed her, gently at first, not caring that anyone could see. There were only him and her, under the dark, dark arch of the sky.  
  



	9. Chapter Eight

Rising Star, Falling Darkness  
By Camilla Sandman   
  
Chapter Eight  
  
Songs.  
  
Songs in his mind. He became aware of her voice slowly – it seemed to ease into his dream, altering it from a nightmare of pain to a soft feeling of… Love? The notion puzzled his mind, for he had a distinct feeling he was not supposed to feel love again.   
  
He could feel his body now. It hurt, but no longer overwhelmingly. It was a dull pain; it felt almost like a relief from the pain he remembered.   
  
Memories… To his surprise, he could easily reach for them now. They were all there, memories of Her, of light and sun and snow-peaked mountains. Memories of fighting and blood and pain.  
  
He lingered on the memories of the pain for a while, feeling his body twitch. He remembered screams so inhuman he could not believe they had been his. He remembered trying to cling onto memories of happiness amidst it all, like a drowning man clinging to a tree-branch.   
  
He remembered the Eye, terrible beyond comprehension, filling his mind with madness and despair. He remembered everything, his life, his friends, his pain – his love.  
  
The voice still sung in his head, drawing him away from the pain. It promised him that the pain was only a memory, and that he need not stay in pain forever.  
  
_ Come back to me…_  
  
He blinked, as his eyes opened on their own and he looked into her face. She was smiling – a smile so filled with sadness that it pained him. Her hand was gripped in his, warm against his cold hand.   
  
"Arwen," he whispered, lifting her hand to his lips. His lips felt dry, and he tasted dry blood on them. For a brief moment he feared she was an illusion, then he looked into her eyes. The bright light there was no illusion, it could not be.  
  
"Aragorn!" called a tired voice in astonishment. It was Gandalf, entering the room. The wizard looked older than Aragorn could ever recall seeing him. Old and bent, like a tree having weathered a storm.   
  
*The* storm, he corrected himself, the storm of Sauron. Waves of orcs, clouds of darkness, rain of blood. It had come, bringing endless pain.   
  
But beyond the pain was still honour and spirit and courage and Aragorn rose from the bed.  
  
******  
  
The Ring glimmered on his finger, fiery letters almost joyfully shining red. They were complete at last again, the Ring and its Master. Complete, invincible, victorious. Middle-earth was his now, as it should have been long ago. His to shape, his to rule. *His*.  
  
He watched the orcs storm down on some humans through the Palantír with the same interest as a human squatting a fly. They were nothing. They meant nothing. He delighted in the terror on the human faces, but he did not feel as much delight as he wanted.  
  
The Three had not surrendered to him yet. He could feel their minds, and yet they resisted him. Why did they still resist?  
  
In the ancient spirit of Sauron, there was no longer anything that reminded him of hope or spirit. He had known it once, but it was so long ago not even the memory of the memories lingered.  
  
He ruled by fear, and so love was foreign to him. His will was set on domination, not understanding.   
  
And so, in the darkness of his tower, he set his mind on the Three again. He wanted to see them kneel before him, acknowledge his power, bend to his will. He was the Dark Lord, master of the One and they would bow before him or perish.  
  
One of the Three was near. A strange emotion beset him and it took him a while to realise it was surprise. It was unexpected. He had perceived the Three would flee from him and be forced to kneel, but not that one would wander into Mordor.   
  
His old mind lingered on the bearer. It was the she-elf, the one who had nearly given in to him. He could touch her mind, but it was strangely bright.   
  
_Where are you going, Elf?_  
  
And to his astonishment and outrage, she laughed and her mind did not darken.  
  
_ Where I please, _she replied. _If you want to claim me, you must come to me._  
  
Anger like he had not felt since he had been robbed of his One swept through him, and he rose from his dark throne. The Ring gleamed in reply to his anger, the fiery letters glowing stronger than ever.  
  
He would break her. He would have her kneel to him, broken in pain and her mind as dark as his wraiths's. She would be his, weak and tormented and under his command. She would kill her brethren by his word, but he would leave a part of her to remember who she had been. To remember and feel pain.  
  
Where there was light, there would be darkness. Where there was freedom, there would be domination. He feared no one – because his mind did not understand hope and spirit. If it had, perhaps Isildur would never have dealt Sauron the heavy blow that had cost the Dark Lord his Ring so long ago. In his arrogance, he had assumed the human would not make one last, desperate attempt.  
  
If Sauron's mind had understood and remembered hope, spirit and courage, Galadriel's vision would have failed and Middle-earth would have been lost.  
  
But the Dark Lord did not remember, nor understood, and he set out from his safe tower of Barad-dûr to seek out and capture the morning star.  
  
And the vision could still come to pass.   
  



	10. Chapter Nine

Rising Star, Falling Darkness  
By Camilla Sandman   
  
Chapter Nine  
  
Heat.  
  
Heat had taken hold of his body as they struggled upwards. It clung to his skin and made each intake of breath painful. It burned in his throat and lungs, like liquid fire.   
  
Up, up and up they climbed, the dark clouds of smoke enclosing them. Somewhere, high above, their destination awaited. The fires of Mount Doom.   
  
Far off sounded the cry of an eagle. The eagles had flown away from Mordor, trying to lure the Nazgûl along. But in the darkness, anything could hide. Even Sauron himself.   
  
Mount Doom flickered, shooting out another large veil of smoke. The fume was piercing, and no attempts to keep it away were successful. Cloth covering mouth and nose had done no good.   
  
Behind him, Gimli was grumbling in Dwarfish. It was comforting to hear in an odd way.   
  
Frodo and Sam were trotting slowly just ahead of him, following Galadriel. The two halflings looked so tired and bleak it pained Legolas. Frodo looked old – as if age had touched him and added to his burden.   
  
But the halflings were alive. And that, in itself, might be some frail flicker of hope. Neither Sam nor Frodo had spoken much, and the Elf perceived they were filled with shame. They, the brave halflings who alone had walked into Mordor felt shame, when he had failed to protect Aragorn. They should have no shame; the shame was his.   
  
Upwards they stumbled on, Galadriel leading the way. In the dark smoke of Mount Doom she seemed pale and more than once she seemed to almost stop dead in her tracks. What inner fight she was in the midst of, Legolas could only imagine.   
  
He almost wished he could give her strength somehow. She seemed so small against the might of Mount Doom. The halflings too…  
  
Frodo stumbled, and Legolas was by his side in a heartbeat. The halfling looked pained, his eyes not quite focused.  
  
"Frodo?" Legolas whispered, bending down.   
  
"Master Frodo?" Sam echoed, concern replacing fatigue on his face.   
  
"I'm… I'm fine," Frodo muttered, but even as he said it, he fell against Legolas. The Elf caught him gently, lifting him up.   
  
Leaning against Legolas's shoulder, Frodo closed his eyes. He felt so tired, and a part of him just wished for darkness. Darkness and sleep.  
  
The other part could not stop thinking of the Ring. Longing for it in an unexplainable way, as if it was as vital to him as oxygen. Could he be without it? Would he want to try?  
  
For a brief moment, when Lady Galadriel had come, he had felt something other than the need for the Ring. He had felt – light, light in his dark soul. But now smoke and foul smells surrounded him, and he could feel nothing.   
  
Legolas moved carefully and gracefully, carrying Frodo like he was made of glass and could break. His rhythmic breathing was strangely calming for the hobbit, luring him into a semi-sleep.   
  
The heat seemed to be everywhere, surrounding him like a blanket. It was hard to think. He was floating, floating…  
  
The mountain was getting steeper, and treacherously slippery stones seemed to litter their path. Sam fell a few times, but always got up before anyone could offer to help. He refused to stray from Legolas's side, so he would stay near Frodo.  
  
Gimli trailed behind, still muttering every now and then. His face was closed, guarded, but his eyes spoke of fear. But he still plunged on, never hesitating, not even for a moment.   
  
And in front walked Galadriel, pale and tight-lipped.  
  
Up, up and up. How long they climbed was hard to say, it could have been a mere hour, or days. It could not be measured in time, for there were no stars and no sun to guide the measurement. There was only smoke, black and foul as Mordor.   
  
And suddenly they were there, where the Ring had been forged so long ago. A cave, seemingly like all other caves. The heat was like a wall when they entered, and Galadriel nearly fell as it smashed into her. Flames were licking up, bathing all the surroundings in its red light.   
  
The fumes were still harsh, but something else had come into the air. A smell of cruelty, of evil. There was no other way to describe it.  
  
Frodo opened his eyes as the Elf gently helped him down to the ground. The ground felt like fire to his feet and he nearly yelped in pain.  
  
Galadriel stood by the flames, erect and strangely silent. She seemed to clutch something in her hand so hard her knuckles whitened.   
  
"Lady Galadriel?" Gimli asked, his voice betraying none of the fatigue he surely felt.  
  
It was time.  
  
"Celeborn, beloved, now it ends. May I see you again soon," she whispered, and with a swift move she put her ring on.   
  
At once, the Eye was there, in her mind, pushing against the fragile barriers she had erected there. The barriers would not hold long, but it would have to be long enough. It would have to be.  
  
_At last, Elf.  
  
_ She shuddered at the voice, so near and filled with malice. It was almost as if it was *there* and not just in her head.   
  
And she turned, slowly. Something was there, entering the cave. A dark shape, looming. It seemed to attract the darkness instead of hiding in it.  
  
"Nazgûl," Legolas whispered, reaching for his knives.   
  
"That is no Nazgûl," she replied, voice trembling. "That is Sauron."  
  



	11. Chapter Ten

Rising Star, Falling Darkness  
By Camilla Sandman   
  
Chapter Ten  
  
Warmth.  
  
Warmth surrounded her; she was wrapped in it, like a blanket as light as a feather. For a while she just revelled in the notion, for it was far from unpleasant. She had been cold for so long, a cold that had nothing to do with weather or season.  
  
Opening her eyes, she found herself looking into the sleeping face of Faramir. His breath tickled her cheek, like a gentle spring breeze. For a moment it was enough to look at him and remember the softness of his lips.   
  
Had she dreamed it? No, one could not dream sensations so vivid. He had pledged himself to her, and so she would lose him. For nothing good could last in a nightmare.  
  
Perhaps, if she willed it, the moment could last forever. Perhaps she could never fully wake, sleeping in his arms. Dawn would never come, so why would they awaken?  
  
"Gandalf!" She heard an excited voice next to her, and she looked up without thinking. One of the halflings had spoken, but she could not tell which one in the dark.  
  
Gandalf was there. She could see his white garment shine in the dark, like a weak reminder of what light was.  
  
"What is it?" Faramir whispered in her ear, and she turned her head back to face him. He looked tired, but there was a look on his face she refused to acknowledge.  
  
"Gandalf has come," she replied, untangling herself from his embrace and sitting up. He merely nodded, as if he was expecting it.  
  
"It is time then," he muttered gently, taking her hand as he sat up also. "Yet, I will go to my doom with hope in my heart."  
  
"Speak not of doom," she urged, a sudden fear overtaking her. "Not yet. Not yet."   
  
He looked at her curiously. "Éowyn, you spoke of doom last night."  
  
"I did. I wished only for death. I…" Her voice faltered, and she leaned her forehead against his.   
  
"I am afraid to speak it," she murmured, taking in the smell of him. Even with the stench of death that was on them all, there was something comforting about it.   
  
"You need not. Your eyes speak of it; I need no words."   
  
Her eyes seemed to water, and she willed the tears away. She could not cry, could not feel. Nothing awaited them but death, yet… Something warm was in her chest still, and against all reason she felt a wish rise in her mind. A wish to watch a sunrise by the side of this man.  
  
She wanted to live. Even here, when her people were dying and her brother lost, she wanted to live.   
  
"If - If beyond this darkness there is something other, I will pledge myself to you," she promised.   
  
He pressed her hand to his chest, and she could feel his strong heartbeats under her palm.   
  
And for Éowyn, it was no longer a fight to die avenging those dead. It was a fight to live.  
  
******  
  
The cave darkened. The flames shot higher.   
  
And Sauron stepped forward.   
  
His shape was humanoid, only greater than any human or elf. Where the shadow ended and his shape began was hard to say. Even the air around him seemed darker, as if that too would bend to his will.   
  
Fear beset Frodo, and he could not move. He could hardly breathe, but the Dark Lord seemed to scarcely notice him.   
  
Galadriel too, seemed frozen. Her sword fell with a clatter to the ground.  
  
_ Come._  
  
If Sauron spoke the word or merely will it was hard to say. But they all heard it, his order to Galadriel to come to him. To give in.   
  
_Come!_  
  
Even as she shook her head, she took a step forward. Her whole body trembled, and for a moment Frodo thought she might give in. For a moment her light faltered and she seemed but a shadow.  
  
Then silver flashed in her eyes and she stopped dead in her tracks.   
  
"No!" she flung out. "You will not have me! By Celeborn, you will not have me!"  
  
A strange silence fell, measuring only a heartbeat, yet also an eternity.  
  
"No," she repeated, quietly this time.  
  
A terrible anger beset Sauron and the Ring began to shine with an overwhelming light. He saw only her denial of his power, and in rage he lifted his weapon and strode towards her.  
  
Gimli moved, but Legolas was faster.  
  
Legolas did not even consider his options, his mind instructing his body even as he was taking in the situation. Forward he leaped, his knives gleaming.  
  
Galadriel closed her eyes, expecting the blow. It never came to her.  
  
It hit Legolas, smashing into his side with a sickening sound of bones breaking. His eyes widened and for a moment she looked right into his soul. There was pain and devotion, but most of all there was spirit, a spirit not even Sauron could completely break. She had not been wrong about Legolas.  
  
"LEGOLAS!" cried Gimli, as the Elf was flung into the air and battered against the rocks. The Dwarf wasted no time running to the slumped body of his friend, his heart in his eyes.  
  
And Sauron towered before Galadriel, dark and menacing, his whole mind set on her. He lifted his weapon, but Galadriel only smiled.  
  
Sauron did not see Frodo reaching for Sting, nor did he hear the hobbit's small cry until it was too late.  
  
Sting flashed through the air.  
  
It hit its mark perfectly, severing several fingers of the shape Sauron had taken.   
  
Frodo stared in amazement as a band of gold fell down and he instinctively reached for it.  
  
The Ring fell into his hand. It was warm, the letters gleaming with a red glow. It was his again, his Ring, his precious.  
  
His eyes fell on Legolas, slumped on the ground, and Gimli kneeling by the elf's side. For a brief, brief second, Frodo felt his mind regain clarity.   
  
The Ring had caused this.   
  
The shadow of Sauron still loomed, reaching for him… But in one fluid movement Frodo threw out his arm, lifting it over his shoulder. The Ring left his hand, falling over the edge, falling, falling, falling…   
  
Falling.   
  



	12. Epilogue

Rising Star, Falling Darkness  
By Camilla Sandman   
  
Epilogue  
  
Down.  
  
Down fell the One Ring, until the flames swallowed it. The gold melted, and as the power in it was unmade, there was a great cry.   
  
Sauron cried out, but even as he cried, his shape became unsubstantial. Powerless.   
  
Lifting her hand, Galadriel looked directly at the once great spirit, who had become so dark and evil. There was nothing of worth there; it was empty. Empty and beaten at last.  
  
The mountain shook, and a wind swept through, taking the shape of Sauron with it.   
  
Her eyes fell on Gimli and Legolas, and her heart had no time to feel any relief or triumph.  
  
"Legolas!" Gimli urged. He stared at all the blood with greater terror on his face than he had shown on seeing Sauron. "Legolas!"  
  
Galadriel sank down beside the dwarf, staring at the blood. Not Legolas too.   
  
The earth shook violently, and she nearly lost her footing.  
  
"Frodo! Sam!" she called, and the halflings ran to her side. Frodo looked dazed, but he did help them lift up the unconscious elf. As hurriedly as they dared, they exited and began the long descent.  
  
They had barely started when there was a great cry from Sam.   
  
"The eagles!"  
  
******  
  
A great wave seemed to pass through Middle-earth. Not of water, but of foul air. From Mordor it washed out over Middle-earth – and vanished.   
  
And all the races looked to the sky and wondered if it was a sign. Some dared hope, but most just waited.   
  
Strange fear befell the orcs and they fled, spirit abandoning them. Hope crept into the hearts of men, elves and hobbits and they waited.  
  
Waited for morning.  
  
*******  
  
Minas Tirith stood silent, smoke still rising from fires dying out.  
  
In one of the houses standing unscathed, Galadriel walked through the quiet hallway.  
  
It was over now. And yet not.   
  
Galadriel slipped into the room at the end of the hallway, getting no reactions from those already there. Frodo had fallen asleep, as well as Sam, but Gimli sat awake by the bed. The Dwarf did not even look up at her, his whole attention on his friend.  
  
Legolas looked pale, deadly pale, but his chest rose and fell. He lived yet, but for how long no one could tell.   
  
She walked quietly over to Frodo, putting a hand on his head. He seemed peaceful now, but the wounds were still there. They would always be there. Her heart bled for him, and she slipped quietly into his mind, reassuring herself that he was sleeping peacefully. There was little she could give him, but this was something.  
  
She patted Sam quietly before walking over to where the Dwarf sat.   
  
"He will awaken," Gimli said quietly, but there was a hint of command in his voice.   
  
"He must will it so," she answered sadly, reaching over to take the Silvan elf's hand.   
  
_Legolas, awaken! _  
  
There was no reaction, no change in the breathing. For a moment she feared her powers were already fading, and that she would lose another elf. Her heart could not bear it.  
  
_Legolas, awaken! Your friends await you._  
  
His hand felt so lifeless in hers, and she lifted it to her forehead. Suddenly, tears were trickling down her face.  
  
She cried for Lóthlorien, for Gondor, for Frodo and his pain, for Legolas, for all those fallen. And most of all she cried for Celeborn.  
  
A soft hand wiped away her tears, and she looked down to see Legolas's eyes open.   
  
*******  
  
The wind carried strange tidings all the way to Rivendell and the sea, to Mirkwood and Bree. And to the small camp where survivors had gathered outside of Minas Tirith.  
  
They all looked at Gandalf, waiting for him to speak.   
  
Gandalf stood silent, but there was a strange look on his face. It could almost be a smile. The halflings had walked up to him, but the men kept their distance.  
  
"Gandalf?" asked Pippin. The wizard did not answer, did not even blink.  
  
Silence stretched on forever, and Éowyn found herself leaning on Faramir as they waited. She had the strangest feeling that doom had indeed come – but yet, they still lived.   
  
And finally, Gandalf spoke. His voice was filled with great sadness and great joy, so mixed together it was hard to say which was most prominent.  
  
"Sauron is defeated."  
  
There were no cheers, no laughter. No one embraced. There was simply a long exhale, and they kept on waiting. Waiting for darkness to pass.  
  
******  
  
The sky was still dark as Galadriel helped Legolas out on the small balcony. They stood quietly by the rail for a while, looking towards Mordor.  
  
"Sauron is defeated," she said after a while, speaking to the wind.  
  
He leaned on her, smiling ever so softly. He felt faint, but his legs somehow carried him still.   
  
"Frodo was hope, and hope won."  
  
"Yes," she smiled, even though her smiled carried great sadness. "But hope could not have prevailed without courage and spirit. You did well, Legolas of Mirkwood."  
  
She leaned forward and kissed him, as softly as autumn rain.   
  
As she broke the kiss, the halflings came trotting out with Gimli in tow. They looked expectantly on the sky, which was still as dark with stormy clouds.  
  
Stepping away from them, Galadriel looked out over Middle-earth, wondering if it could ever rise from this. But it had to. She had to believe that.  
  
"Flee, darkness! Morning has come," she said quietly and lifted her arms.   
  
The light shone through her. And behold! the morning star gleamed in answer and grey crawled over the horizon. Grey becoming faintly yellow and orange and finally red.  
  
The people of Middle-earth cried out in wonder, all eyes fixed on the horizon.   
  
The sun rose.   
  
Morning had come.  
  
Fini  
  
Author's Final Note: Thanks to my wonderful beta-reader, Dot! Kiss-kiss.   
  



End file.
